


Checkmate

by SilentSinger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: (Decidedly Unhygienic) Explicit Sexual Content, (Very Slight - blink and you might miss it) Fluff, An actual bloodbath, Angst, Blood, Blood - blood and more blood, Developing Friendships, Explicit Language, Hand Jobs, Knives, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Spanking, Torture, kink and feels, no I mean it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-15 02:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4589808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/pseuds/SilentSinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The beginning of a beautiful friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can't Stand Me Now

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, gentle readers. This fic right here is one of my very first; it's a little rough around the edges and I've learned a fuckload since, but I do hope you enjoy it. Chapters one and two were written before Gotham season two started – so the Eddie I've written about here is a little more comic based. Anyway, enough prattle from me – happy reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ever-curious Edward Nygma pays the King of Gotham a visit.

Word on the street was that there was a new king in town, and Edward Nygma was curious. Edward Nygma was always curious, but for some reason, this particular phenomenon had piqued his curiosity more than usual. He’d decided, for no reason other than his own whimsy, to pay the new monarch a visit.

Edward was finding himself acting on these sorts of impulses more often these days – after the dispatch of Officer Tom Dougherty, and he’d grown rather fond of his new outlook on life. There were parts of his persona exposed now, that he himself had never been aware of – and he liked it. He liked it a whole lot. For one, he now knew that his intelligence was a gift. It was no longer something to be brushed aside, only called upon when his colleagues were stumped – and he no longer found himself craving the approval of his peers. Because he didn’t need to – he was better than they were.

Pulling his coat collar up against the bitter night air, he hums to himself as he strides toward his destination.

****

Having taken residence in Don Falcone’s mansion, surrounded by thugs, lackeys, goons and associates, and seated in what could only be described as a throne, Oswald Cobblepot was the very definition of ‘lording it up’.

The door swings open and a short but muscular man, with dark hair and little to no neck, addresses Oswald. “Sir? Your eight o’clock is here.”

Oswald idly swirls the remainder of his brandy, and drains it. “Very well. Send him in.”

If Oswald Cobblepot had kept a list of visitors he least expected, then Edward Nygma would have been at the top of it.

“Your Majesty,” Edward begins, with a flourish.

Oswald sneers. “Cut the crap, Nygma. What do you want?”

_ “Thirty men and only two women, but they hold the most power. _

_ Dressed in black and white, they could fight for hours. Who are they?” _

Oswald regards him scathingly. He simply doesn’t have time for this. “Nygma, you have one minute, before Tony and Danny here wipe that simpering grin off your face for good.” He nods his head towards two particularly heavyset thugs, who flank either side of the door, cracking their knuckles menacingly.

Edward regards them serenely. “You see, that’s the thing, Mr. Cobblepot. I’d much rather speak to you in private.”

Oswald scoffs. “You think I’m that stupid?”

“On the contrary, Mr. Cobblepot. In fact that’s the very reason you  _ shouldn’t _ want people listening to my proposition.”

“So you actually  _ do _ have a proposition? Because from here it looks like you’re just wasting my time.”

“The answer to my riddle is chess pieces, Mr. Cobblepot. You see, you may be the king right now, but even the king has vulnerabilities. You need associates. Associates at the GCPD. Associates who can, shall we say, smooth over certain, uhh, anomalies?” Edward grins from ear to ear, he can tell Oswald is showing an interest. And why wouldn’t he? Edward was a skilled professional, and furthermore, he outshone this scrawny ‘monarch’ in every way. That, he was sure of.

“Very well,” Oswald sighs, and lazily gestures his people out of the room.

“You actually have a throne,” Edward notes, amusedly.

“I actually have a throne. You have five minutes, Nygma.”

“Right. My proposition is that of an alliance. Of course you already have several associates at the GCPD, but I assure you, Mr. Cobblepot, none are quite so skilled as I.”

Oswald glares at him. “Is that so?”

Edward approaches him calmly, his hands clasped in front of him. His posture, Oswald notes, is quite different to the last time they met. He now radiated confidence, possibly even arrogance. Oswald is suddenly very aware of how alone they are. His throat feels devoid of all moisture, and he swallows, dryly.

“Yes. You see, I’m the best forensic scientist there is. I am at the pinnacle of my career. Which means that I’m also the best person to assist in any, shall we say,  _ disappearances.” _

“You want to help us dispose of bodies?”

Edward grins, his mind flashing back to his own foray into waste disposal – how little he’d known then, and how much he’d learnt since. “Partly. But not just that, Mr. Cobblepot. Not just that. I believe I can offer you so much more.”

Oswald hated to admit it but he was intrigued, and if he was honest, it was more by Edward himself than by anything he had to say. He was no longer some awkward, insipid scientist, he had seemingly transformed into something quite esoteric, almost alluring. He was still annoying as hell – that much was apparent. Equally fascinated and curious, Oswald decides to push his luck. “Forgive me for asking, Nygma. But you seem rather different from the last time we met.”

Edward waves his hand dismissively. “Perhaps. I suppose you could say I’ve had a rebirth of sorts. As for the catalyst? Well, that’s none of your concern. The only thing that should concern you at this point, Mr. Cobblepot, is my offer.”

“And what would I owe you in return?” Oswald replies, with slight trepidation.

Edward moves closer, until he’s toe to toe with the King of Gotham. He gazes down.

_ You’ll do better with that one if she’s a little scared of you. _

_ Wise words, _ he thinks to himself – and they had worked so well with Kristen Kringle. Unfortunately – for her, at least – he’d now grown weary of her. He had bigger fish to fry, or rather, bigger  _ birds _ to fry.

He reaches out his hand and gently grasps Oswald’s chin, tilting his head upwards to look him directly in the eye.

“You’ve changed your hair,” Edward observes, his voice low, almost dangerous.

“Y-yes I...” Oswald stutters in response. He suddenly feels as if all the air, and the bravado has been knocked out of him. He suddenly feels very small indeed. His eyes dart around nervously, unsure of where to look. He tries to look Edward in the eye but there’s something so intoxicating and formidable about that cold stare through rich brown eyes. Instead he settles for looking straight ahead, endeavouring not to notice the bulge in Edward’s pants – and failing miserably. Despite his best efforts, he feels his own member stirring in kind.

Edward smirks when he notices where the gangster’s gaze has landed, and he shakes his head, condescendingly. “Oh, Mr. Cobblepot. I should have known. Very well. If  _ that’s _ how you want to pay me...” He calmly unzips his pants, freeing his semi-erect cock from its confines.

Oswald glances toward the door. His thugs could walk in at any moment now, curious as to what was taking this appointment so long – ready to protect and serve the man who pays them. The very notion of that fills Oswald with a delicious feeling of unease, and he feels heat radiating from his stomach, as his cock strains against the fabric of his pants.

“Nygma, I never said-”

“Please. Oswald. You didn’t have to.” Edward trails his thumb over the shorter man’s lips, parting them ever so slightly. Oswald glances once more towards the door.

“I suppose your men could walk in at any moment now,” Edward notes, grinning wolfishly. “What would they say if they saw their king like this?”

Oswald lets out an involuntary groan.

“The King of Gotham,” Edward continues, “and on his own throne, no less.” He giggles, almost childlike in its innocence; this was easy – far too easy, and he was eager to see how far he could push it. “Go on then, Your Majesty. Pay me.”

And with that, he reaches round and forcefully yanks the back of Oswald’s hair, leaving his mouth agape in shock.  _ Perfect. _

Eyes wide and fearful, Oswald reaches out a shaking hand and wraps his long fingers around the base of Edward’s penis, which is warm to the touch and fully erect now – Edward is clearly getting off on this display of power. Oswald had done this before, of course – he was no Sunday school teacher, but there was something about this particular scenario that equally scared and excited him – stirring something up from deep within that he’d long forgotten about.

His long nose inhales deeply the scent of his aggressor, as he guides the taller man’s length into his all-too-eager mouth. From above, Edward lets out a small sigh.

Oswald slowly begins to find a rhythm, timing the stroke of his hand to the movement of his mouth, his head bobbing back and forth, his eyes darting from the door, to Edward, and back to the door. He starts to grind his own hips, pathetically rubbing his cock against the constraints of his suit pants, desperate to feel friction of any kind. Did it arouse Edward to see how much he himself was getting off on this? What would his men say if they walked in now, to see that their boss, their  _ king, _ was nothing more than a greedy little cock-slut? The very thought makes him shiver with sick pleasure, and he moans around the flesh in his mouth.

Edward tightens his grip on Oswald’s hair, and forces himself deeper, and Oswald tries to protest – his cries muffled and his hands raised up in submission as Edward fucks harder into the back of his mouth, his balls slapping messily against Oswald’s chin.

There are tears in Oswald’s eyes now, and his jaw is aching terribly as Edward fucks his face relentlessly, grunting with every thrust. Part of him wants to somehow overthrow his assailant – knock him to the ground, stamp hard on his face and watch his teeth turn crimson. He desperately wants it to stop, but at the same time, he’s loving every second of it. He feels his own climax building up inside him, untouched, and he cries out indistinctly around his mouthful as his own seed soaks through the fabric of his pants.  _ Greedy little cock-slut. _

The sight and muffled sound of Oswald’s release seems to light a fire in Edward, and he emits a sharp cackle as he swiftly withdraws himself, pumping frantically with his fist until he comes hard and exuberantly all over Oswald’s face and hair.

****

As Oswald cleans his face with his handkerchief, Edward turns to leave. “Oh, one last thing,” he beams, reaching into his jacket pocket. He produces a small card, drops it nonchalantly onto Oswald’s lap, and leaves the room.

Oswald watches the taller man exit and picks up this memento. It’s forest green in colour, no bigger than a credit card, and on one side there’s an embossed lime question mark. He runs his thumb over it once, before turning it over.

_ What costs nothing, but is worth everything, _

_ weighs nothing, but can last a lifetime, _

_ that one person can’t own, but two or more can share? _

Oswald regards the closed door, smiles to himself, and pockets the card.

 

“Friendship,” he murmurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loosely based on a dream I had a while back that I kept promising to write down.  
> Tony and Danny named after the characters from The Shining - I have no idea why.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)


	2. We're Going to Be Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward Nygma has been rather busy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet mother of mercy, there's a plot amongst this smut!

While almost certainly enjoying the finer things in life as of late, there was always a special place in Oswald Cobblepot’s heart for the soothing warmth of a long shower at the end of an even longer day. It was also a fine place to relax, and to collect one’s thoughts. This was especially helpful, seeing as Oswald’s whole month since declaring himself King of Gotham had been made up of long days, and even longer nights.

With Don Maroni out of the picture, Oswald had had to see to it that Gotham’s alcohol trade didn’t take a turn for the worst-

_ Nygma... _

-and with Don Falcone out of the picture, he’d had to start making arrangements with Commissioner Loeb, to keep him sweet, as it were-

_ Nygma... _

-it hadn’t proven difficult, Oswald muses, Loeb was more of a crook than Oswald himself-

_ Nygma... _

-and with Fish Mooney out of the picture he’d had to see to  _ rehabilitating _ Butch Gilzean again-

_ Nygma... _

-of course Zsasz was taking care of that – he’d done such a wonderful job the last time-

_ Edward Nygma... _

Try as he might – and he did try, Oswald simply couldn’t stop thinking about his recent encounter with Edward Nygma. He sighs to himself as his fingers relinquish his sponge – which hits the floor of the shower with a gentle  _ plop. _

Edward Nygma. Edward  _ fucking _ Nygma.

“I shouldn’t have enjoyed that,” he mumbles, disapprovingly.

_ But you did. _

“But I did,” he sighs, as he begins to stroke his stiffening cock with a slick hand.

He thinks about Edward Nygma, the taste of Edward Nygma, the scent of Edward Nygma. He wants to hurt Edward Nygma, tarnish that pretty face and wipe that satisfied look off his face for good... but by God he wants Edward Nygma to hurt him too.

Warm water cascades down his back as he bites his lip and works himself vigorously, one hand splayed out on the porcelain tiles, the other, almost a blur.

It doesn’t take long – it never does when he’s thinking about this particular scenario, and with a cry and a jerk of hips, he frowns as he observes his release circling the shower drain.

“No, this won’t do. This won’t do at all.”

****

Oswald’s club was about as neutral a territory as Oswald was willing to provide. He certainly wasn’t about to meet Edward on Edward’s terms.

Edward had specified, when Oswald had finally relented and called him, that he didn’t wish to visit ‘Castle Cobblepot’ quite so soon after their last encounter. “I don’t like the smell,” he’d quipped, “all that hired muscle, not a single intellectual thought between them. It’s an assault on the olfactory senses.”

“Quite,” Oswald had sighed.  _ Was this guy for real? _

“Very well. My club, tomorrow at eleven, or we don’t meet at all. Oh, and Edward? Keep your senses to yourself. Olfactory or otherwise.”

****

Wearing a pinstripe bottle green suit, and sporting a garish violet tie that is almost as obscene as the smirk on his face, Edward appears every bit as egocentric as the last time they had met.

“Well, if it isn’t my new best friend,” Oswald sneers, as Edward takes a seat. “Welcome to my club. I’m so honoured you decided to join me.”

Edward purses his lips. “You realise, Oswald, that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?”

Oswald emits an empty chuckle. “So we’re on first name terms now? I’m so glad. Would you care for a drink,  _ friend?” _

_ “Born in captivity, I need to breathe but I am not alive. _

_ I can be young or old but I cannot die.” _

Oswald raises an exasperated eyebrow.

“Wine, Oswald. Please. Red, if you have it.”

One dismally uninspiring Stranglers cover band, two bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon and a relatively civil (considering their history) conversation later, and the place is almost empty, save for the bar staff.

Edward eyes them suspiciously as he leans towards his companion and continues his conversation in dramatically hushed tones.

“See, that’s the whole concept, Oswald. Some people,” he pauses as the slightest glimmer of satisfaction ghosts his face, “some people  _ deserve _ it.”

Oswald scoffs. His head is quite hazy from the drink but Lord help him if he wasn’t starting to enjoy this man’s company – although he wasn’t going to admit it any time soon.

“Everyone deserves it, Edward. Everyone in Gotham, at least. This town is a cesspool of immorality as we both know. But what’s it to you, anyway? Do you want to be some sort of vigilante? A Robin Hood for the benevolent minority of this town? Don’t kid yourself, Nygma. There are no innocents in Gotham.”

“Perhaps,” Edward muses, “but some are more deserving than others. Even you can see that, Oswald. Besides – it’s always been fascinating to me, what the human body can endure. I’m always eager to test new theories.”

He grins at Oswald through crimson-stained teeth, and Oswald feels a pinch in his lower abdomen at the memories it evokes.

“And you’re positive you wouldn’t get caught?” Oswald questions.

Edward rolls his eyes. “Please, Oswald. I haven’t been caught yet. Come with me. Let’s take a walk.”

****

Oswald knows, as soon as he has stepped outside of the safety of his club, that this is a bad idea. He’s also vaguely aware that he doesn’t care.

They cut a fine silhouette as they wander the streets of Gotham; to the casual onlooker they might have even seemed like old friends.

 

“Here.” Edward stops abruptly and eyes a particularly drab looking apartment building. “Up there. Fifth floor, second window from the right.”

“What about it?” asks Oswald, craning his neck and leaning on his umbrella for support.

“That apartment, was once home to one Jeremy Singer, teacher of British and World Literature at the Gotham County High School.”

“And it isn’t now?”

Edward grins malevolently. “No, Oswald. It isn’t. You see, Mr. Singer liked to spend a little too much time after hours with his students. He was at the GCPD more often than most cops – I’d observed it for years. Of course he slipped through the net every time, because of who he knew. Some say he even had dirt on Falcone, though why Falcone didn’t have him killed, I’ll never know. However, Falcone’s, and the GCPD’s loss, was my gain.”

“If he had associates in high places, weren’t you scared of repercussions?”

Edward snorts and waves his hand flippantly as if the very idea were ludicrous. “Please. I’m no hired goon. These things take planning – careful planning, and intellect, of course.”

Oswald doesn’t look convinced. “So you left no trace, whatsoever? Impressive.”

Edward coughs noisily, and for a second Oswald thinks he might actually be choking. He’s all but ready to slap the man on the back, when Edward raises his head.

“Onwards!” he beams.

 

As they journey on into the night, Edward proudly shows Oswald the humble and now, unoccupied abodes of Harry Veall, the local butcher who was allegedly selling human flesh, and Samuel Dern, the circus worker who had a sideline in kidnapping and slavery. All decidedly unremarkable people – in the grand scheme of things, Oswald notes. Gotham wouldn’t miss them in the slightest.

Soon enough, Edward leads him towards his  _ piece de resistance  _ – a darkened underpass on the southern side of Gotham City. He pauses, surveying the area with hushed reverence, the smile on his face – inscrutable.

“And here, Oswald, is where it all began.”

“It’s a bridge,” says Oswald, dryly.

Edward turns to face his companion and frowns.

“It’s not just a bridge, Oswald. Without this place, I wouldn’t be offering my substantial services to the likes of you.”

“Well aren’t I just the luckiest man in Gotham?” Oswald sneers.

Edward narrows his eyes. “I told you sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Oswald. Surely even you can see my potential. Look around you. Open your eyes. See the bigger picture.” He reaches out and mockingly taps Oswald on the forehead with his knuckles.

“Or is it too much to comprehend for your tiny, insignificant brain?”

Oswald has had enough. Fuck this guy. Fuck this asshole.  _ The King of Gotham, insignificant? _

No.

In one fluid movement, and with all the strength he can muster, he swings his umbrella around and hits Edward firmly in the stomach.

Edward loses his footing as he staggers backwards, the wind well and truly knocked out of him. He hits the floor with a resounding thud, as his aggressor looms over him.

“Call me insignificant again,” Oswald threatens, his voice low, yet calm.

Edward glowers up at him from beneath lowered brows, a wry smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You’re insignificant,  _ Your Majesty. _ I’ve seen more powerful kings in a deck of ca-”

His sentence is cut midway as Oswald swings his umbrella once more, striking him forcibly across the side of his head with its handle.

“Fuck you,” Edward growls, spitting out a tooth followed by warm streak of blood onto the frigid ground.

Using the handle of his umbrella, Oswald delicately lifts Edward’s chin to look him directly in the eye.

“Fuck me?” he retorts, grinning maliciously. “I’d like to see you try.”

Edward roars as he rises to his feet, knocking the umbrella from Oswald’s grasp, charging forward and pushing Oswald with all his strength onto the hood of a nearby parked car.

“Fuck you,” he hisses, his face inches away from Oswald’s.

There’s a profound silence between both men, as Edward pins Oswald down, the shorter man’s hands raised up and quivering pathetically, the condensation of their combined breath floating between them in a small silver cloud.

“Fuck me,” breathes Oswald, his voice barely audible, “please.”

In the blink of an eye, and a flurry of teeth, tongues and blood, they are kissing furiously. Edward licks and nips at Oswald’s face and neck, drinking in his flavour, and relishing the moans escaping him.

Oswald bucks his hips up into Edward, who pushes his thigh between the shorter man’s legs, emitting a low growl at the feel of Oswald’s erection pressing against him.

Adrenaline floods through Edward then, bringing to mind his first encounter in this very area – his knife plunging over and over again into the meaty chest of Officer Tom Dougherty, and he’s hit with a sudden and uncontrollable urge to get Oswald’s pants off  _ right fucking now. _

He does so with little finesse, pausing once to survey the display in front of him – Oswald ‘King of Gotham’ Cobblepot, splayed out over the hood of a 1985 Buick LeSabre, naked from the waist down, his chest rising and falling rapidly, blood – Edward’s blood – smeared around his mouth and down his neck, and his gaze – almost black.

Part of him wishes he could take a photo and preserve this exquisite vision forever, and part of him is gleeful that his oh-so-capable brain would remember it for him. Just like this. For as long as he wanted.

“Turn around,” Edward commands. “Now.”

Oswald nods lightly and obeys, spreading himself wide and wincing at the feeling of cold metal against his cock. He couldn’t deny it to himself or to anyone, this was what he wanted.  _ Fuck, _ this was what he wanted.

After a moment’s thought, during which a train passes overhead and lights up the whole scene dramatically, Edward drops to his knees, spreads Oswald’s cheeks, and begins to explore the pucker of his hole with his tongue, the blood from his mouth providing just a little extra lubrication.

Oswald groans at the sensation – he certainly wasn’t expecting  _ that,  _ and he writhes as he stretches himself out, smearing sweaty hand prints over the hood of the car.

“Jesus, Edward, y-you, can’t... oh fuck,” he babbles, as his knees buckle and he clings on to the hood desperately, his breath catching in his throat as if it were a secret he wasn’t supposed to share.

By the time Edward is finished, Oswald is a pliant, quivering wreck, whimpering softly as Edward leans over him and whispers dangerously into his ear, “Oh, but I can, Oswald. I can do whatever I want. Turn around. I want to see you.”

Oswald complies, shifting under the taller man’s weight until they’re face to face. He clutches tightly onto Edward’s shoulders, anchoring himself as if he might float away at any second.

 

Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot had always attempted to display a certain amount of pride, but at this moment in time, he didn’t care if he needed to beg, and so, in a small voice – far too small for a man of his stature – he utters three simple words: “Fuck me, Edward.”

Edward Nygma never needed to be told anything twice, and this was no exception.

With some sense of urgency he unbuckles his belt, exposing his cock to the cool night air. He spits once into his hand, and proceeds to lubricate himself with a warm mixture of blood and saliva. He leans forward as he guides himself inside Oswald’s body, and he cannot stop the gasp escaping him at the feeling of tight muscle around his length.

It’s almost too much to bear, for both men, and as he starts to move, Edward leans in close to kiss Oswald once more – gentle, yet possessive.

He interlocks fingers with Oswald, stretching his arms above him and holding him down, as he works himself into a steady rhythm, pounding relentlessly, all the while smearing hot, red kisses over Oswald’s lips and face.

They can’t keep this up for much longer, and it’s with some relief on Oswald’s part when Edward whispers softly into his ear,

“Come for me, Oswald. I need you to come for me. Touch yourself.”

Edward relinquishes his grip on Oswald’s hands as he rights himself, gripping tightly onto Oswald’s thighs as he thrusts harder, deeper, eager to see, eager to watch – oh, how he wanted to watch.

With eyes squeezed tight and one hand clinging desperately to the edge of the car, Oswald grips himself firmly and strokes, making slick, wet noises until – with a cry that threatens to wake every household in the vicinity – he comes hard and magnificently over his own stomach.

Edward observes this display in rapt adoration, his cock throbbing from the sensation of Oswald clenching around him, his mouth agape as he rolls his hips, thrusting with increased vigour until he finds his release, three words tumbling from his lips:

“Fuck  _ you, _ Oswald.”

****

Smeared in a mixture of blood, dirt, and semen, they look quite the sight as they try their best to clean off and look presentable, and Oswald can’t help but relish in quiet satisfaction as he regards Edward’s bloodied mouth.

“I’m sorry about your tooth, Edward. If you like I can get you on my dental plan.”

“Mobsters have a dental plan?” Edward questions, amusedly.

“Of course! Why else do you think we do it?” Oswald grins, clapping his companion on the back as they continue their journey into the night.

 

They cut a fine silhouette as they wander the streets of Gotham; to the casual onlooker they might have even seemed like old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see I still have a massive thing for the Edward/Dexter parallel. Totally not sorry.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)


	3. Back in Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when Edward kills the wrong guy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Chris.  
> And she fucking knows why.

“Fascinating.”

It was, of course, not fascinating. It may have been fascinating, say, three months ago, or perhaps, had Edward himself not been the cause of this particular crime scene.

Nevertheless, he poked and prodded, took notes, and greeted his colleagues with his ever-present smile.

So few things were fascinating these days. Miss Kringle, for example.

Edward had personally been delighted when she had apparently solved his little riddle regarding the late Officer Dougherty, only to be severely disappointed when it transpired she not only hadn’t, but also regarded him with a look of complete imbecility when posed with any sort of attempt at intelligent conversation. The breaking point, for Edward, had occurred when he had presented her with a delightful little love riddle, based on the Fibonacci sequence. She’d merely gazed up at him, a warm – yet vacant expression plastered upon her pretty face.

It beggared belief. A child could have solved it.

Oswald Cobblepot, on the other hand, was fascinating. Edward had observed his journey with great interest for many months – intrigued by his evolution from umbrella boy, to dish washer, to restaurant manager, to nightclub owner and finally to his pinnacle now as Gotham’s one true crime lord – yes, Oswald Cobblepot was fascinating. And challenging. Edward liked to be challenged.

“Hey, Ed, what’ve we got?” Bagel in one hand, coffee in the other, tie loosened, and looking rather like he’d spent the night under a bush, Harvey Bullock appears as if this is the last place on earth he wants to be right now. This recent wave of homicide certainly seemed to be taking its toll on him.

“Well, it appears the subject suffered blunt force trauma to the back of the head, Detective Bullock. And, as you can see, the subject’s eyes have been extracted. At a glance, and going by the overall coagulation, I would suggest that the eyes were removed prior to the bludgeoning. He clearly didn’t see it coming.”

Edward resumes his inspection, stifling a giggle and ignoring the look of intent disdain on Harvey’s weathered face. Harvey Bullock’s approval had been low on his list of priorities for quite some time now.

“We got an ID?”

“For once, Detective, yes. He was carrying his wallet. The subject’s name is Joe Ake. Otherwise known as Joe the Bastard. According to the folks back at the station, he worked under Falcone as a pimp for Gotham’s more...  _ specialised _ scene. Also had a penchant for ‘trialling’ out his own women – against their will. Kept his girls nice and scared, so he was never convicted.”

Harvey grimaces. “Yeah, I’ve heard of the guy. Another shit-eating degenerate scumbag off the streets. Looks like someone did us a favour.”

“Looks like somebody did, Detective.”

****

Joe the Bastard had been  _ fun.  _ Edward had observed his routine for weeks, biding his time, until the moment was absolutely perfect. He’d posed as a wealthy entrepreneur, interested in speaking with Joe and Joe alone, with regard to some of his more exotic offerings. They’d had lunch, Edward had kept Joe’s glass of wine topped up, and – after establishing somewhat of a rapport – had asked Joe for a tour of his base of operations. They’d left the restaurant approximately twenty minutes before the diphenhydramine Edward had laced Joe’s Fettuccine Alfredo with had taken effect. The technique was crass, but it did the job.

 

Joe had awoken tied to a chair in a dimly lit room, facing a wall plastered with photos of far-too-familiar faces.

“Morning,” Edward said, brightly. “I suspect you already know why you’re here.”

From behind the tape covering his mouth, Joe growled something that sounded very much like an insult. Edward chose to ignore it.

Edward paced the floor as he continued, “Now, Joe. I’d like to tell you a little story, if I may. Not so long ago I was rather new to this whole business. I worked following the thesis of -  _ no body, no crime.  _ I soon learned, however, that there’s simply no fun in that. After all, if a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”

Joe struggled against his restraints, and continued his barrage of muffled insults.

“Quite,” Edward continued, as he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a scalpel. “So I’m working on a theory, Joe. The theory being that what one cannot see, one cannot possibly violate.”

Joe’s eyes widened in horror.

****

When Edward had told Bullock that the enucleation had occurred prior to the bludgeoning, he was only half telling the truth. In reality, he’d severed the optic nerve, but not fully extracted the eyes – eager to see if a blow to the back of the head would make Joe’s eyeballs fly out of their sockets. It had.

Of course, Edward had always intended to kill Joe the Bastard. That was a given. He’d also taken the liberty of claiming Joe’s long, tailored, black, fur-trimmed coat. It really was quite beautiful, and Edward knew of just the person to bestow it upon. After all, Edward had mused with a smile, Joe wouldn’t need a winter coat where he was going.

 

What Edward hadn’t accounted for, however, was that Joe the Bastard, had been – by default, now under the employ of Oswald Cobblepot.

****

Upon visiting Oswald’s mansion, Edward once again finds himself face to face with Oswald’s doorman, the stout man with dark hair and no neck to speak of.

“Boss is in his chambers. And he ain’t taking appointments today.”

Edward smiles superciliously at him. “I’m aware of that, my good sir. But I’m not an appointment. I’m a friend.”

Mr. No-Neck grunts. “Boss says we can’t kill you, but he didn’t say nothin’ about not roughing you up.”

Edward smile blooms into wide grin as he moves closer to the fellow, gazing down until their faces are inches apart. Mr. No-Neck smells of cheap brandy, Aramis, and stupidity.

“My dear sir, you simply have  _ no _ idea just how much I’d enjoy that. But he’s expecting me, I assure you. I brought a gift.”

Edward shakes the package he’s carrying as if to emphasise his point.

“You think I’m just gonna let you walk in there, with  _ that? _ How do I know that shit ain’t a gun or somethin’?”

“That’s very astute of you, my circumspect friend. The simple answer is – you don’t.”

And with that, Edward simply pushes the slack-jawed chap aside, and enters the mansion.

He strides quickly and reaches Oswald’s bedroom before poor Mr. No-Neck has probably even figured out what ‘circumspect’ means. He giggles at this thought as he knocks on the door.

 

Oswald Cobblepot, fully dressed but with towel dried, fluffy hair, invites Edward inside with somewhat of a puzzled expression.

_ Like a baby bird with ruffled feathers. _

“Edward Nygma. How nice of you to finally relent and visit my home. I trust you’re not finding it too...  _ odoriferous?” _

“I’m endeavouring to ignore it.”

“Excellent. So tell me, friend, what brings you here? Business? Or...  _ pleasure?”  _ Oswald enunciates this last word with somewhat of a sheepish expression.

Edward paces the floor, surveying the room in quiet contemplation. It is quite beautifully decorated – from the deep plum silk damask walls, to the polished wooden floor – on which rests an opulent Persian rug. His eyes fall upon the velvet curtained four-poster bed before he replies with a smirk, “Business, actually.”

“Very well,” Oswald replies, eyeing the package Edward is carrying. “And what, pray tell, is that?”

“Aha! I’m so glad you asked, Oswald. This is for you.”

Still never knowing quite what to expect from Edward, Oswald opens the package warily, keeping one eye on his companion.

He runs his hands over the soft fabric, before holding the coat aloft.

“Edward it’s...” his expression darkens, suddenly. “It’s Joe the Bastard’s coat. Tell me, dear friend, how did you happen upon Joe the Bastard’s coat?”

“You... you knew him?” For a split second Edward actually looks taken aback.

“Well, yes. Of course. He makes me a lot of money.”

_ “Made _ you a lot of money,” Edward retorts, biting his lower lip.

Oswald pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers and squeezes his eyes tight. “Edward... Edward.  _ Tell me. _ Please tell me you didn’t...”

“Oh, I did, Oswald. I did. And that’s not all, either.

_ Pronounced as one letter, and written with three, _

_ two letters there are, and two only in me. _

_ I’m double, I’m single, I’m black, blue, and grey, _

_ I’m read from both ends, and the same either way.” _

“What?” snaps Oswald, wondering how a person could appear so smug, yet so angelic, simultaneously.

“Eyes, Oswald. I removed his eyes. It seemed rather...  _ poetic.” _

“Are you fucking insane?”

“No. Are you?”

It is at exactly this point, that Oswald loses his last modicum of patience. He drops the coat as if it were molten lava, grabs Edward by the lapels and shoves him backwards with all his strength against the wall. “You realise I could have you killed?”

“Yes.”

Oswald reaches into his pocket and produces a small switchblade, which makes a satisfying click as the blade extends.

_ “I  _ could fucking kill you,” Oswald growls, as he holds the blade against Edward’s neck.

Edward doesn’t flinch. “But you won’t.”

Oswald glares at Edward as he tightens his grip, his nostrils flared and spittle daubing the corner of his mouth.

Edward continues, “He was a repugnant little man, Oswald. He took women off the streets with the promise of a better life, and violated them. Repeatedly. He then sold them off to do unspeakable things. He ruined their lives.”

Oswald remains in position, his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched in defiance.

“You should try on the coat, you know. It would be a terrible shame to let it go to waste. I really do think it would suit you.”

Exasperated, and wearing a thunderous expression, Oswald finally relents and pockets the knife. He glowers at Edward as he picks up the coat, walks over to his full-length cheval mirror and reluctantly tries it on.

“Oh...” he murmurs, faintly, as he observes his reflection.

Edward appears behind him. “See, I told you.”

“You did.”

“You were never going to kill me anyway,” Edward smirks, as he wraps an arm around the shorter man, and begins to palm his cock through his crisp suit pants.

“Really?” breathes Oswald, addressing their reflection. “And why is that?”

“It’s quite simple, really,” Edward replies, unzipping the gangster’s trousers and freeing his rapidly hardening dick. “I own you.”

Oswald bites back a moan as Edward proceeds to stroke him slowly, delicately running his thumb over the head of his cock, smearing the bead of pre-come that has gathered there.

Both men pause briefly – startled, when there’s a knock at the door.

“Everything okay in there boss? Doorman says he let that loony in.”

“Everything is fine, Gabe,” Oswald blurts out, breathlessly, trying and failing to not let his voice crack. “Everything is...  _ in hand.” _

“Okay boss. Call me if you need me.”

Edward nibbles at Oswald’s neck as Gabe’s heavy footsteps dissipate, and he resumes his stroking, quicker this time, all the while maintaining eye contact via the mirror.

Oswald’s head lolls to the side and as he squeezes his eyes tight, he grinds his hips back into Edward, aching for him, aching to be owned by him.

“Fuck me, Edward, now,” Oswald demands, somewhat petulantly.

“No.”

“Please...”

“No,” Edward continues. “But I want you to remember, Oswald. I want you to remember every time you wear this coat, what a slut you are for me.”

Oswald whimpers as he nods lightly, his body shuddering from the pleasure surging through him, pooling deep into his lower abdomen. He cries out desperately as his cock pulses in his lover’s grasp, spilling copiously over Edward’s hand.

****

“By the way,” says Edward, as he stands in the bedroom doorway, “I meant what I said. It really does suit you.”

Oswald observes his exit and as the door clicks shut, he lays down on his bed and sighs gently as he nuzzles the plush fur collar.

 

_ So you’re Edward Nygma’s bitch. _

As he drifts off into a tranquil sleep, he’s struck with one last thought.

_ There are worse things I could be. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truth be told, I just wanted to tell a story about Oswald acquiring his trademark Penguin coat. This is how it played out in my mind.  
> Also, describing Ozzie as a "baby bird with ruffled feathers" is homage to my favourite Nygmobblepot fic of all time (and best apology present ever), [E. Nygma's Victory.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4008094)
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)


	4. Switchblade Smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A simple story about two men sharing a tub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're looking for a plot here, I have none.

Edward surveys the King of Gotham, observing the damage, so to speak. His ebony hair stuck to his forehead in streaks, angry red marks covering his face and neck, scratches adorning his torso, and a trail of semen glistening on his stomach. He’s completely wrecked and utterly, utterly perfect.

“Go clean yourself up,” Edward smirks.

“But... I...”

“Go clean yourself up,” Edward repeats. “I want to mess you up all over again.”

****

Sometimes, but not often, their relationship almost resembled something tranquil – domestic, if you will.

Sometimes, Oswald would lay his head in Edward’s lap and they’d just talk. They’d discuss the events of the day. Who’d been killed? Who’d betrayed whom? Was Oswald’s empire thriving? If not, why not? What could be done about those who hindered that process?

Sometimes, Edward would dress Oswald. His long, adept fingers would make quick work of Oswald’s fine, silk cravats. They’d pause, briefly regarding one another, before going about their day.

Sometimes, Oswald would listen at the bathroom door as Edward sang in the shower. Edward’s crooning is extremely pleasing to Oswald’s ear, although he’d never admit such a thing.

Sometimes, Edward would arrive at Oswald’s mansion, soaked to the bone from the rain, carrying a steaming flask of Lapsang Souchong from Oswald’s favourite tearoom.

Sometimes, although he didn’t think Oswald ever noticed, Edward would smell Oswald’s hair. Oswald smells of peppermint and cinnamon. Oswald always notices.

 

Sometimes... well, sometimes, they’d share a bathtub.

****

“So tell me, Edward. Did you deal with that little problem I’d asked of you?” Oswald begins, as with careful, downward strokes, he proceeds to shave Edward’s lathered face with a cut-throat razor.

Edward regards him and smiles broadly – well, as broadly as one can, when one has a razor to one’s face. “Aah yes. Our good friend Mr. Kelly. Believe me when I say, Oswald, that that particular pest is well and truly  _ exterminated.” _

Karl Kelly had been a nuisance. It was risible, to Oswald, that any employee of his would presume that he, the King of Gotham, wouldn’t notice ever-increasing sums of money going unaccounted for. Yet Karl Kelly, last seen driving around in his newly acquired metallic blue Porsche 914, apparently didn’t seem to possess such intuition.

Oswald could have killed the man himself, of course, but there was something about Edward’s enthusiasm for such tasks that warmed the crime lord’s heart, and sometimes... other places.

“I’m so glad to hear that, Edward. As always, I knew I could count on you. Would you care to elaborate?” Oswald asks with another careful downward stroke. “I know you’re dying to elaborate.”

Of course Edward was dying to elaborate. Oswald could practically feel the forensic scientist humming from the excitement, his dark brown eyes gleaming with the passion he held for his work.

“Well, he was a thief, no? Sticky-fingered, so to speak,” Edward giggles, his eyes dancing with zeal.

“Mmhm.”

“Those fingers had to go, Oswald.”

Oswald isn’t entirely sure whether it’s the straight up look of pure  _ joy _ on Edward’s face that does it, or the thought of one of his least favourable employees’ digits adorning the floor of some dank warehouse – with the roaches and the rat shit – but the creeping feeling of arousal is undeniable, and he almost hates himself for it. Almost. He takes a deep breath, dipping the lather covered razor into the now almost bubble-less bathwater.

_ Is the bathwater too warm? The bathwater feels too warm. _

“Splendid,” he continues as, with a less than steady hand, he begins shaving the left side of Edward’s face. “Indulge me, my dear. What was the weapon of choice?”

_ Perhaps I should run the cold faucet. Perhaps- _

“Trauma shears.”

Of course Edward’s weapon of choice was a medical tool whose sole purpose in life was to save it. Of course it was.

_ “Ugh.”  _ The uttered exclamation falls from Oswald’s lips, seemingly involuntarily, as he loses his composure on the hand he’s so desperately trying to keep steady, resulting in a small – but very defined – cut on Edward’s left cheek.

Edward winces and hisses in response, but it’s the speed at which he grabs Oswald’s wrist which takes the gangster completely by surprise. There’s a moment, a very brief moment, in which Oswald genuinely fears for his life, his shaking hand gripping the razor’s pearl handle with remarkable tenacity. Until-

“Do that again.”

“W-what?” breathes Oswald, genuinely taken aback at this request.

Edward shoots him a grin containing far too many teeth. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy inflicting pain. I know you. Do it again. Hurt me, Oswald.”

Oswald regards the scientist in utter bewilderment as a bead of blood from the cut on Edward’s face rolls down his cheek and hits the bathwater with a soft  _ plip,  _ where it disperses, like a tiny rose.

“Or perhaps you’d like me to elaborate a little more about our good friend Mr. Kelly? Because I could most certainly indulge you there.”

Edward relinquishes his grip on Oswald’s wrist and practically  _ caresses _ the laceration on his own cheek.

“You see, I didn’t just remove his fingers. You of all people should know that’s not nearly enough to kill a man.” He pauses, almost fondly regarding his bloodied index finger before gently placing it in the hollow of Oswald’s throat. “After I removed his fingers, I cut him, like a pig. I opened him up. From here, to...  _ here.” _

He traces a long, agonisingly slow line down to Oswald’s lower abdomen, leaving a trail of blood in its wake.

Oswald’s head begins to swim as seemingly every last drop of fluid in his body rushes southwards with monumental speed. This was a game of cat and mouse, and Edward was a natural predator. Plus Edward was right. He probably would enjoy it.

He regains his composure as best he can as he murmurs, “Where?”

Edward seems to consider this for a moment, the way one might consider what to have for supper, before holding out his thumb. “Let’s start small,” he grins.

Oswald nods lightly as he takes hold of Edward’s hand, and runs the razor delicately across the offered digit, transfixed by the sight of skin opening up at his touch, as sanguine fluid begins to trickle from the fresh wound.

The noise Edward emits in response is borderline  _ obscene.  _ With his forefinger and freshly cut thumb, he grips Oswald’s face tightly, smudging his pale features with crimson.

“A... again,” Edward gasps, as he leans forward and kisses Oswald with forceful intensity.

“Edward,  _ fuck, _ I...”

“Again,” demands Edward, as he pulls back from the kiss, and rests his palm on his upper thigh. “Again. Here.”

Oswald regards him open-mouthed. “But won’t that...?”

“The femoral artery rests at least one point five inches deep. Just keep it superficial.”

“But you could bleed out,” Oswald frowns.

“It’s a common misconception that blood doesn’t clot underwater. Clotting is merely a biological trigger from the blood vessels. It causes platelets to clump at the site of the wound in an attempt to seal it. Oswald...” he pauses, genuinely touched at the gangster’s concern, “I’ll be fine. It just might get a little...  _ colourful _ in here.”

Oswald had to admit that the thought of the bathwater slowly changing hue wasn’t entirely unappealing, and so, with a steadier hand than before, he calmly draws the blade lightly across Edward’s upper right thigh.

Oswald isn’t entirely sure which he enjoys more, the wail of pure, unadulterated elation from Edward, or the sight of his lover’s arousal rapidly becoming obscured as tendrils of red from the laceration permeate the water surrounding it.

“Oswald?” asks Edward, between heavy breaths.

“Yes?”

“I love you. Do it again.”

This time Oswald needs no further coaxing. He deftly slides the blade across Edward’s upper left thigh, resulting in a cut about three inches in length.

_ “Fuck! _ Oswald, I...” Edward moans as he  _ pounces _ on the shorter man, which results in the razor flying from his grip, and hitting the bathroom floor with a clatter.

Oswald whines hungrily as their lips crush together, his hands clawing at Edward’s back as the scientist kisses him with such fervour it makes his head spin. Edward wraps his fingers around the gangster’s aching cock and strokes hard, the sound of which is only amplified by the crimson bathwater, yet still barely audible above the moans escaping Oswald’s bitten lips.

“How’s your leg?” enquires Edward, breathlessly, as he sucks desperately at Oswald’s neck.

“It’s – it’s fine. Warm water always eases the pain,” Oswald pants.

“Good. Turn around.”

Oswald accommodates this request, ungracefully shifting position until he’s on all fours, facing away from Edward.

Edward takes a brief moment to admire the view, before he leans forward and begins to caress the pucker between Oswald’s cheeks, massaging in slow circles before applying gentle pressure and dipping in the tip of one long finger, down to the knuckle.

Oswald’s cry echoes around the steamy bathroom, as he clutches the sides of the tub – knuckles white – and pushes himself back eagerly.

Edward smiles and delicately adds a second finger, caressing careful circles inside of Oswald, until he can bear the sound of his stuttered cries no more.

As he lines up his cock and presses inside, the noises that escape Oswald threaten to send Edward over the edge then and there, every nerve ending on his body already on fire from the exquisite pain emanating from his thighs – which are still exuding moderate amounts of blood into the opaque bathwater.

_ “F-fuck!  _ Fuck me, Edward,  _ please!”  _ cries Oswald, his whole body trembling as he sinks himself backwards onto Edward’s length.

Edward, needing no further provocation, takes this cue and just starts  _ pounding,  _ his breath coming out in ragged grunts, and there’s no way in hell he’s going to last much longer. With one hand tangled and tugging at Oswald’s ebony hair, he reaches around with the other and gropes blindly for Oswald’s dick – which is hanging hard and heavy between his legs – before gripping firmly and pumping frantically in time with his thrusts.

With a strangled, echoing cry, Oswald shoots hard into the murky bathwater, his fingernails white and clawing the sides of the tub as Edward thrusts into him once, twice, three more times before he cries out Oswald’s name and a string of obscenities as he comes so hard he almost blacks out.

Sweat pouring from his brow, Edward collapses forwards and wraps his arms around Oswald, and they remain there for a moment, breathing synchronously: two killers alone in the world, surrounded by pure, unmitigated destruction.

“Edward?” Oswald murmurs, almost timidly.

“Yes?”

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)


	5. Famous Last Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set right before S02E04: Strike Force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kept you waiting, huh?

Times were irrefutably taxing. There was conflict brewing, deep in Gotham’s underbelly, and Oswald was losing control.

He cannot remember the last time he slept through the night. Order – as a concept – was what he knew, what he aspired to keep. It had pleased him to discover that the apparent leader of the Maniax had been confirmed dead, but quite frankly his  _ modus operandi _ had Oswald deeply troubled. There was no honour in chaos, in outright anarchy. Something was going to happen – something huge – and very, very soon.

This was just the beginning. There was something far more malevolent behind all of this. There had to be. Someone had to have orchestrated that Arkham breakout, but whom?

Oswald could feel his authority slipping through his fingers. He’d worked hard for his position atop the horde of Gotham’s finest ne’er-do-wells, and he wasn’t ready to relinquish power quite so soon. Something had to be done, and something had to be done quickly.

Furthermore – his choice of confidants was wholly limited. The downside to surrounding oneself with a crew of sycophantic yes-men, was that they never gave good advice.

There were a couple of exceptions to the rule, of course. Victor Zsasz, for example, could never be labelled as a sycophant. Zsasz was efficient, lethal and reliable. Not a day passed where Oswald didn’t thank every deity that Zsasz was on his side – but his capacity for anything more challenging than simply pointing a gun and firing left a lot to be desired.

 

Which left one person.

****

It wasn’t that they’d grown apart – far from it. The truth of the matter was that Oswald was afraid of just how close they’d become. Every day they spent apart felt like a month – but Oswald knew, that with circumstances as they were currently, he was best keeping his attachments clandestine.

 

The concrete of Gotham’s docks is bitterly cold against his behind, as he sits under the inky night sky – legs hanging freely over the very spot of the river where he was once reborn. Jim Gordon had been easily manipulated that day; Oswald knew as soon as he laid eyes on the man that his actions could be predicted entirely. His ability to read people – to zero in on their weaknesses and exploit them, had always been Oswald’s greatest asset.

He supposes, as he casts his eye across the gloomy horizon, that that’s exactly why he’d grown so fond of Edward Nygma. Edward could be described as a great many things – but being predictable was most certainly not one of them.

As footsteps approach across the stone, Oswald tightens his grip on the knife in his pocket. Could never be too careful these days, even at midnight in a seemingly deserted location.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“Sit the fuck down, Edward.”

“Ever the gracious host,” Edward giggles, as he seats himself next to his companion. “So tell me, how have you been? It feels like almost a year since we last spoke.”

“It’s been just over a week.”

Perhaps Edward wasn’t aware of it, or perhaps he was, but Oswald always felt instantly better when he was around. His presence was a catharsis; it assuaged his inner turmoil in a way that no sedative could – and he’d indulged in quite a few, as of late.

“Nobody followed you here, right?” Oswald questions, although he already knows the answer.

Edward regards him the way one might regard one’s shoe, after stepping in something particularly abhorrent. “I’m Edward Nygma,” he scowls. “Not Harry the Ham-fisted Hitman. Of course no one fucking followed me here.”

“Forgive me. I’m merely exhibiting precaution,” Oswald sighs. “I’m deeply troubled, my friend. I was hoping perhaps you could give me some advice.”

Edward’s expression softens instantly. It was remarkable just how amiable the fellow could appear, at times. “Sure, Oswald. I’m listening.”

 

The protracted unburdening of Oswald’s troubles – the Arkham breakout, Jerome, the Maniax, gang wars within his own clan and the slow but steady decline of his own businesses and services – is interrupted only once by an inebriated and unfortunate vagabond whom Oswald felt was getting too close for comfort. He’s dispatched of with little fanfare and thrown promptly into the murky water below.

 

“That really is quite the predicament,” says Edward, gazing dreamily at the vagrant’s body as it begins its journey downstream. “Rest assured, I’ll do everything I can to help.”

Oswald observes his companion – a serene expression on his face as he absent-mindedly swings his far-too-long legs against the side of the pier – and smiles. Whether Edward would be able to help or not, he felt somewhat more at ease about the whole situation having simply spent some time in the man’s company.

“I know you will, Edward.”

****

Edward kept his word. He accessed every record pertaining to Jerome Valeska and the Maniax, and read through every relevant file. He listened in on telephone conversations. He hacked, snooped and scouted his way through every piece of evidence available, which – thanks to Jerome and his entourage’s recent pageantry at the GCPD – was quite plentiful. There were a few leads, which, after thorough investigation, unfortunately turned out to be dead ends.

He began to investigate Arkham itself; there seemed to be nothing untoward on the surface, but at the very least he discovered who was working on the day of the breakout. Of course, if every single employee on that day’s schedule were to suddenly and inexplicably disappear, attention would be drawn. Naturally, Edward didn’t want that. Instead, he worked meticulously through the list, performing background checks on each person in turn – until he eventually found somebody who fit the bill.

****

Dressed in an Oxford blue plaid suit, and sporting a long, black, rubber apron and elbow length latex gloves, Edward unveils his unlucky captive to Oswald with all the pomp and grandeur of a circus ringmaster.

“May I present to you our honoured guest,” he grins, as he removes the sack covering their bound and gagged detainee’s face.

Oswald eyes the seated, squirming figure and frowns. In the gloom of their current location – an isolated and particularly dismal warehouse, he almost looks ten years older. “Excellent. And who is he?”

“Miguel Ferreira.”

“Miguel Ferreira?”

“Miguel Ferreira. Was working at Arkham Asylum on the day of the breakout. He is also the brother-in-law of recently deceased member of the Maniax – Arnold Dobkins. Has a long and chequered past involving arson, extortion and-” Edward pauses, evidently unable to suppress a giggle, “indecent exposure. Apparently, one time, Mr. Ferreira saw fit to pleasure himself in the bathroom of a long-haul flight. However, he neglected to ensure that the door was properly locked. When the plane hit a spot of turbulence and the door swung open, the flight attendants and the queue of waiting passengers were most aggrieved. It’s a wonder you ever landed a job in the first place, Mr. Ferreira.”

Oswald snorts. “And you think this fellow may have some information of value to us?”

“He might,” replies Edward. “While I’m not suggesting that our guest here in any way orchestrated the breakout, he very well may have seen something that day. Also, I don’t think it would be unreasonable to presume that he liaised at least once with Dobkins since his escape – apparently they were very close.”

“Interesting. Well then, proceed.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” grins Edward, reaching into his apron pocket to produce a comically oversized syringe. “I saw this in a movie recently. I’ve been dying to try it ever since.”

Oswald observes with great interest as the syringe is plunged deep into their captive’s jugular – ever fascinated by the combination of meticulousness and glee that Edward applies to his work.

Edward steps back and regards his subject as if he’s weighing up all the possible courses of action. Oswald knows, of course, that whatever he’s planned for Miguel Ferreira, he’s had planned from the get-go. Spontaneity and Edward’s particular methodology did not go hand in hand.

“I’ve injected you with suxamethonium chloride,” Edward states, with the pragmatism of a schoolteacher addressing his class. “You cannot move, but you’ll still be able to feel absolutely everything. Isn’t science wonderful?”

He reaches once more into his apron pocket and retrieves a length of steel piano wire. “Now, I’m going to ask you a series of questions, Mr. Ferreira, and I want you to grunt once for yes, and twice for no. If I think you’re lying,” he pauses, stretching the wire taut in front of Miguel’s face, “I’m going to remove little pieces of you, very, very slowly. This wire can cut meat and bone easily.”

A wry smile lights Oswald’s sharp features. Regardless of whether they gleaned any valuable information, this was going to be quite the show.

 

Unfortunately for all involved (particularly the recently departed Miguel Ferreira – whose body parts now littered the floor like a gruesome jigsaw puzzle), Edward’s plan proved unfruitful.

Oswald was now bitterly resigned to the fact that whomever had staged the breakout – they were clearly a person whose cunning and resources far outweighed the combined efforts of both Edward and Oswald. And that was the most troubling fact of all.

As such, Oswald had rejected Edward’s offer to pursue the case further, because he was certain above all else – that the whole situation was a ticking time bomb. There was nothing to do now, except sit back and wait for the shit to hit the fan.

Tomorrow he would call a meeting.

****

As much as he hated to admit it, Edward knew Oswald was right. Together they’d exhausted all possible avenues, and time was indeed of the essence. While there were many who disagreed with Oswald’s position of authority, there was no denying that he’d worked resolutely to achieve it. It pained Edward to see a once proud and adept leader in such a state of despondency.

At the very least he could take Oswald’s mind off of his troubles, in the best way he knew how.

****

Sleepless nights had become the norm for Oswald as of late. Tonight though, he’d refrained from his now commonplace cocktail of sleep aids; he had to keep a clear head for the morning, at the very least. Messrs Xanax and Ambien would simply have to wait.

_ A large brandy wouldn’t go amiss though,  _ he thinks, as he makes his way downstairs.

The mansion is eerily calm, even for such a late hour. The muffled, yet telltale tones of Frank Sinatra interjected with occasional peals of vivacious laughter denote that the majority of his staff are playing poker in the basement rumpus room.

On any other night, he would bemoan the situation. After all, what is he paying these degenerates for? Frankly though, tonight, he’s thankful for the quiet.

He’s considering making his large brandy doubly so, as he wearily flips the dining room light switch – only to be greeted by the Cheshire Cat-like grin of an all-too-familiar face.

“Edward Nygma,” Oswald smirks. “And on my own throne, no less.”

 

Edward’s proficiency in reading people rivalled Oswald’s own. From the moment he’d first set foot in this very room – so long ago now it was all but a faded memory – Edward had known precisely what Oswald would enjoy, what he’d get off on. Even at the pinnacle of his career, lording it up over all and sundry and presiding over Gotham’s underworld, Edward knew that deep down, some part of Oswald yearned for the days when he was nothing more than a submissive little umbrella boy, massaging Fish Mooney’s feet.

Edward Nygma knew exactly what Oswald Cobblepot needed right now, and truth be told, he needed it too.

And Edward Nygma was right.

 

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” asks Oswald, his stomach already in knots at the prospect of what may come.

“Oh, I think we both know the pleasure is going to be all mine,” Edward grins. In the dim light provided by the wrought iron chandeliers, along with the flickering orange glow of the diminishing fireplace behind him, he appears somewhat demonic.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Excellent! Take off your pants.”

For a split second, Oswald considers disobeying – just to see what would happen – but the idea is brushed away as soon as it materialises. Oswald doesn’t have it in him to resist; he never did. He thumbs the elasticated waistband of his mauve silk pyjamas, and does exactly as Edward asks. He shivers involuntarily as the man on the throne,  _ his _ throne, eyes the lower half of his body with lascivious intent.

Edward takes a moment to fully appreciate this visage – the King of Gotham, half-naked, cock twitching, and once again fully at his mercy, before patting his lap they way one might entice a beloved pet.

“Come here,” he says, simply. It’s not a request, it’s an order.

Oswald obliges, making his way slowly around the grand mahogany dining table, feeling ever more embarrassed as the gap closes between them. When he reaches Edward’s feet, Edward emits a low growl of approval.

“Lie across my lap, on your stomach.”

“E-excuse me?”

“Now.”

Oswald obeys, his lips pursed and his resolve utterly diminished. He could never say ‘no’ to Edward under normal circumstances, and right now? He needs this. God, he  _ needs _ this.

“Good,” Edward murmurs, and Oswald can hear the man smirking. “Now, tell me what you want.”

“I...”

_ Crack. _

Without so much as a warning, Edward had spanked him. As the unmistakable stinging heat spreads over his buttocks like a brand, he half considers jumping to his feet to rebuke the man who dare treat him this way. He’s the fucking  _ King of Gotham,  _ for Christ’s sake! Instead, however, he finds himself whispering, “More, please.”

_ Crack. _

Oswald squirms as the delicious red heat threatens to devour him whole; his cock now swollen and pressing firmly against Edward’s thigh. He hadn’t expected to enjoy this quite so much. Arkham, Jerome, the Maniax and even Miguel  _ fucking _ Ferreira barely seem to factor any more; all that matters right now is the sensation of Edward’s immensely oversized palm striking his behind. “Again,” he murmurs.

_ Crack. _

_ “Ugh,” _ Oswald groans, perspiration now trickling down his forehead. “Harder.”

_ Crack. _

“P-please...  _ fuck,” _ Oswald sputters, “don’t stop.”

Oswald soon loses count of the slaps that follow. Edward strikes his backside tirelessly, the sound of which is rapidly outdone by the obscene dissonance flowing from Oswald himself. He groans until his throat is sore; he moans until he screams. This is what he wants. This is what he needs.  _ Don’t stop don’t stop don’t- _

And then... Edward stops. It’s all over. Oswald is left panting and writhing on his lap, his pulse pounding in his ears and his fingers clutching and tangled in the fabric of Edward’s pants.

“What do you want, Oswald?” Edward purrs, as he lightly massages Oswald’s exquisitely sore behind.

It’s at precisely that moment that Oswald realises exactly what he wants. He wants to please Edward, to hear him moan, much like their first encounter in this very room – the encounter that started it all. Struck with an overwhelming desire to swallow Edward down to the balls – to take in every inch of him until he chokes – he mumbles, with all the enunciation he can muster at this point, “I... I want you in my mouth, Edward. Please.”

“Very well,” Edward replies, from what seems like a million miles away.

“Kneel for me, Your Majesty.”

And Oswald does just that, ungracefully yanking off Edward’s pants as he does so, pleased to find him fully erect, and abashed and most definitely aroused by the fact that Edward has decided to forgo wearing underwear tonight. He kneels between his lover’s thighs, smiling as he runs the tips of his fingers across the fine silvery scars there, ever more satisfied when Edward shivers in response.

Oswald pauses for a moment, inhaling Edward’s heady aroma before licking a long, wet stripe along the underside of his unreasonably large cock, hesitating just long enough to pay special attention to the sensitive frenulum. From above, Edward lets out a low, guttural groan.

Knowing, however, that Edward is not the sort of man to appreciate frivolity in this particular matter, Oswald wraps his arms around Edward’s thighs and swallows him deep. The reaction is worth it.

_ “Fuck,”  _ Edward groans. “Fuck,  _ yes.”  _ He tangles his fingers in Oswald’s hair, pulling the man closer and forcing himself deeper, and Oswald moans around his dick in response. He begins to piston his hips, thrusting hard into Oswald’s throat, and the shorter man takes it, he takes it all.  _ Fuck, _ Oswald needs this.

Oswald’s jaw aches, his eyes are watering and his knees are sore, and Edward doesn’t relent. He hammers into Oswald’s eager mouth without mercy, his vocalisations filling the room with raucous obscenity – his huge hands clamped firmly around the back of Oswald’s head.

Oswald groans wantonly around the flesh in his mouth, eager to savour everything when Edward comes; he’s coming apart at the seams and Oswald is fully prepared to let him. Until-

“Yes...  _ fuck...  _ wait _ –  _ stop. No. Not like this.” He tugs sharply at Oswald’s hair, pulling the man off of his dick with a slurping pop. Oswald shuts his eyes, expecting to take it in the face just like before. This time, though, Edward lifts Oswald to his feet and pats his lap once more. “Like this,” he breathes. “Sit.”

Oswald clambers onto the man’s thighs, wincing at the feeling of his bruised buttocks pressing against warm flesh.

“Like this,” Edward repeats, as he intertwines fingers with Oswald, and guides their hands together to stroke their cocks as one.

The intimacy of this act catches Oswald completely off-guard, but he soon loses himself to the delicious sensation of cock sliding wetly against cock. They kiss then, lips and teeth and tongues and perspiration, and when they come – moaning deeply into each other’s mouths – they come together.

They share a moment of profound silence, hearts beating rapidly; short, gasping breaths, the quiescence broken only when Edward finally speaks.

“Whatever happens,” he murmurs, his forehead hot and damp and pressed against Oswald’s, “I’ll be here for you, Ozzie. I’ll always be here.”

Oswald closes his eyes and smiles. Whatever the outcome of tomorrow’s meeting, he knows that together, they can overcome anything.

Anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And now I'm done.  
>  If you can name the movie Ed was emulating, you have my respect. Riss, you don't count. :p
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> Playlist for this whole shebang can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL1beCcuwVPez_7e9KPHmv_TrgLWkQy6Xp).
> 
> Enjoyed this filth? Oh, I have something much, _much_ filthier for you, right here: [The Bird and the Worm](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6211234?view_full_work=true).

**Author's Note:**

> I literally cannot believe the response I'm getting for this fic.
> 
> [baskervilleshund #1](http://baskervilleshund.tumblr.com/post/127573794580/x)   
>  [baskervilleshund #2](http://baskervilleshund.tumblr.com/post/128792223670/x)   
>  [bedaelia](http://necrowhisper.tumblr.com/post/130907338312/a-little-gift-for-okimi79-based-off-chapter-3-of)   
>  [katgatsby](http://okimi79.tumblr.com/post/131843658959/so-some-people-are-just-made-of-awesome)   
>  [rissalf/riddlelvr #1](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/131890416003/the-king-of-gotham-edward-continues-and-on)   
>  [rissalf/riddlelvr #2](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/134026174773/oswald-whines-hungrily-as-their-lips-crush)   
>  [veromejaleska](http://veromejaleska.tumblr.com/post/134767771946/the-king-of-gotham-and-on-his-own-throne-no)   
>  [baskervilleshund #3](http://baskervilleshund.tumblr.com/post/135800448965/checkmate-ch-4)   
>  [why-not-edwald #1](http://why-not-edwald.tumblr.com/post/141250049643/from-chapter-2-of-checkmate-by-okimi79-i-sent)   
>  [why-not-edwald #2](http://why-not-edwald.tumblr.com/post/141395567418/anonymous-said-hello-dear-u-are-not-planning-by)   
>  [rissalf/riddlelvr #3](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/141605550536/checkmate-ch-2-by-okimi79)   
>  [rissalf/riddlelvr #4](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/142076360381/exasperated-and-wearing-a-thunderous-expression)   
>  [why-not-edwald #3](http://why-not-edwald.tumblr.com/post/142171952988/the-king-of-gotham-edward-continues-and-on)   
>  [rissalf/riddlelvr #5](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/146902546372/fancy-meeting-you-here-inspired-by-checkmate)   
>  [rissalf/riddlelvr #6](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/149463534768/like-this-edward-repeats-as-he-intertwines)   
>  [rissalf/riddlelvr #7](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/150447811488/he-reaches-once-more-into-his-apron-pocket-and)   
>  [rissalf/riddlelvr #8 (that my wonderful cupcake got signed by CMS himself! :3)](http://okimi79.tumblr.com/post/152563186059/ohgod-so-remember-this-nice-thing-that-happened)   
>  [rissalf/riddlelvr #9](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/154473190866/in-the-blink-of-an-eye-and-a-flurry-of-teeth)   
>  [veromejaleska #2](http://veromejaleska.tumblr.com/post/154943539316/oswald-hated-to-admit-it-but-he-was-intrigued)   
>  [veromejaleska #3](http://veromejaleska.tumblr.com/post/154951281486/they-cut-a-fine-silhouette-as-they-wander)
> 
> You guys are fucking amazing.


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